Credit: Faustine Badrichani

Softly glide your fingers
along my skin
and feel my open pores
aching for your
touch, lips, and
skin against mine.

Let me taste your perfume
through sense, and hear your body
move through motion.

Keep me close; I shiver no more.
Touch me, so I tremble.


Credit: Ale3andra Chan

We live buried in fiction books,
fairy tales, far-fetched dreams.

We’re tempted by the devil
guided by an angel, and walk
a line catering to both.

Call me dangerous, call me
risqué, or any word seem fit.

I’m made of
hopes and dreams,
unharmonious lust and desires
walking in a world of
sinless white dresses
and glorified Cinderellas.

I want what is wrong.
I shun what is right.
Color me with black;
call me risqué.